Pilot: Door to Door
by ion bond
Summary: What if Dark Angel had been set in a time of prejudice, economic hardship, and colorful slang -- 1938? This AU covers the events of the pilot episode of the show. NOW COMPLETE in two parts.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I don't own any of the characters of Dark Angel, but it's debatable whether their creators would recognize them in these costumes. This AU assumes that the events of Dark Angel took place in 1938, during the Great Depression. I tried to make it as plausible and accurate as possible for a story about a supersoldier set way before genetic engineering, but I didn't have anyone beta, so please let me know if you see a mistake.

--

"_Hard time here and everywhere you go / Times is harder than ever been before / And the people are driftin' from door to door / Can't find no heaven, I don't care where they go"_

_- Hard Time Killing Floor Blues, Skip James, 1931_

--

"I'm going to need another ten dollars," said Karl Vogelsang, the no-good private detective Max had hired.

"That ain't hay, you know." She sighed, tired from her shift at the restaurant, and from this same song-and-dance again. "Didn't your mother ever tell you to be satisfied with what you've got?"

"How about you, baby?" Vogelsang said. The were sitting together in the back room of the laundry business he ran as a cover -- or maybe, because it paid better and more regularly. "Like I said, I traced the license plate you gave me, got the name of the man who owns it?"

"I'm not your baby, I'm your client. And I'm not looking for a man. It was a woman." Max could see the kind face in her mind's eye. "Hannah."

"Yeah, well he said he bought it off a dame up in Gillette County Wyoming in '29, right before the big crash."

"But nothing on Hannah? The other kids?" Her lost brothers and sisters. She needed to find them.

"Names would help."

"No can do," said Max regretfully. "Hannah was a nurse, though. Is there a registry of nurses or something?"

"Ten would help, too."

Max dug in her bag. The rent was due. She had to have more money, and fast.

--

Cal Theodore knocked on the door of the house, his heart pounding in his chest despite his best intentions. Almost every address in First Hill -- a neighborhood well within the boundaries of Seattle proper, yet somehow outside the bounds of the Depression that was crushing the country -- was on the list that Max had given him. The building was not as grand or imposing as some of its neighbors, but it was big enough. Cal could tell from a glance at the manicured lawn and the shiny paint on the front door that the people inside lived lives that were beyond his realm of experience.

All he had to do was pay careful attention. If his report wasn't good enough, he wouldn't earn anything from Max.

Cal had known Maxine Geneva for almost a decade, since the days when, as raggedy kids, they had both worked as messenger boys, doing foot runs together at Reliable's. Eventually, when her femaleness asserted itself strongly enough that even their nose-to-the-books boss couldn't avoid seeing it, "Max" was fired, but Cal still regularly stopped by with his bicycle to see if there were quick delivery jobs to be given out.

Maxie waitressed now at the Gem downtown, but she also had Cal and his mostly-younger collegues, as well as an assortment of sales boys, bus boys, rag boys, Western Union boys, encyclopedia sellers, knife-sharpeners and the like all over the city in her sometime employ. Cal's long-standing friendship with Max bought him a more thorough understanding of the kind of business she was running than the others enjoyed, but he knew that she wouldn't put up with faulty or incomplete information from anyone.

Cal shifted uncomfortably on the mat. He could hear movement inside. Finally, a colored maid opened the door, revealing a glimpse of a high-ceilinged foyer beyond. "Yes?" she said.

Over her shoulder in the foyer, Cal noted an antique dark wooden table -- teak maybe -- with heavy legs supported a vase of fresh-cut flowers. "Reliable Delivery Services," he announced. "Got a delivery for a --" he checked his clipboard automatically "-- Logan Cale." Cal tilted the package so that she could read the return address, if she could read, while he took in other details, making mental notes. The vase holding the flowers looked early Quing, not Ming, to him, but what the heck. He'd put it down as Ming. Cal wished he could see into the next room.

"Fine," said the maid, looking up from the parcel. "It can go on the table."

"I dunno," Cal said. "I'm supposed to get a signature. The big man not home?"

"No, he's out. Couldn't I sign?" she asked. "Mr. Cale been waiting for this one."

"Against policy," Cal lied briskly. "Tell you what though." He hopped from foot to foot, trying to look convincingly urgent. "You let me in to use the john, I'll take care of the signature myself."

--

In between the lunch and dinner rushes at the Gem, Max could almost always be found in the kitchen, listening in to the radio that Herbert, the head chef, kept turned low when he thought he could get away with it. He preferred jazz, but he listened to the serials and the soaps too, and some old-timey music, when the mood struck him. Max herself wasn't picky when it came to taking a load off.

"Maxie!" bellowed Cindy, her friend from the dish room. "Someone at the back to see you, and I know you ain't working!"

"Thanks," said Max, pushing through the saloon doors that communicated with the dish room. The three girls inside were shirking as much as she was, their sinks abandoned, hovering near enough to the kitchen so that they, too, could hear the music.

"You want to be quieter about telling me next time, help me keep Normal out of our hair?" Max asked. No one much cared for Normal, the tyrannical maitre'd and day manager, and the feeling was mutual. Still, the job paid her bills, some of them, and the Gem had weathered even leaner days, before Prohibition was repealed. It wasn't exactly cafe society here, but Max had a number of irons in the fire.

"Sorry, sugar," said Cindy unconcernedly, examining her buffed nails. "You know, this work is awful hard on the hands." She raised an eyebrow at Max. "I'd try for your job, but ain't all of us light enough to be able to pass for Eye-talian."

Max knew that her dark hair and olive skin, her full lips, made the negro women in the back speculate. Not knowing her own parents, it was easy for her not to rise to the bait. She wasn't lying to anyone. So she had picked her last name out of a telephone directory. So what?

"You think you'd rather be at a bunch of diners' beck and call all day?" Max asked. "Go and wash your mouth out with soap." The alley door was propped open, even though it was drizzling outside. She strode across the dish room. "What have you got for me, Stinky?"

"Aww, can't you cut that out? Everyone calls me Cal, now." Her oldest friend kicked at the spokes of his bicycle.

"Maybe you should try bathing more regular," Cindy pointed out from inside.

Max leaned against the doorway, ignoring the exchange. "Well?"

"I cased a house on Fogle Ave. today."

"And? They got anything good?"

"Oh, you bet they do." The skinny messenger waved a folded piece of paper in her face. "Wrote it all down."

Max took it from his hands. "Ming vase, silver tea service ... statue of a cat, huh?"

"Looked like porcelain."

"Security?"

"None of the help sleep in the house. Just one bodyguard. It's all in there -- a map of the first floor, too."

"Nice," Max allowed.

Cal shrugged. "I want the money for that tip-off."

"After."

"Hey, my ma has six mouths to feed, you know."

Max screwed up her face in mock sympathy. "When I think of all the responsibility resting on those thin shoulders, Stinky, I just want to cry."

"I'm not fooling, Max. I need ..." His voice trailed off. "Say, is that All Ears?"

The music in the kitchen had silenced, replaced by a man speaking, low and gravely._ "... broadcast will last sixty seconds, and it is the only free voice in the city of Seattle." _

"Listen up! He's on KPCB!" said Herbert.

The kitchen helpers had stopped their work. Everyone crowded closer to the set. All Ears was an anonymous reporter who had become something of a Robin Hood figure in Seattle. Apparently, he had contacts at several different radio stations, and his corruption-exposing broadcasts were unannounced, but greatly anticipated by Gem employees.

"_Do you know Edgar Sonrisa? Of course you may feel that you do; his has become a household name. You've seen him, smiling for the flashbulbs at political dinners. He smiles because he is a man who believes that he will always continue to move through the world with impunity, his crimes going unpunished because of the power he wields._"

"Maxine, where the fire truck are you?" Normal, stuck his head into the kitchen and bellowed. "Your orders are up! Bip bip bip! And what are you lazy lie-abouts doing?!"

"_He owns canning factories and trucking operations up and down the West Coast. He also owns many of the police in this city. Nevertheless, Edgar Sonrisa is a criminal, and his crimes will no longer be tolerated. Some of those who have eaten the products he sells in this time of hardship are becoming ill, at risk of--"_

Normal snapped the radio off. "I'm as busy as a one-armed paperhanger out there on the floor! Well? Get to work!" Cindy and the other dish girls returned to the back room, the others quickly, with Cindy following, as usual, at her own pace.

"That Sonrisa must be a real skunk!" said Cal.

"Don't be gullible," said Max. "You can't believe what you hear from the ether."

"But All Ears--"

"From anyone," Max insisted.

"Who the heck are you, buster?" Normal's attention settled momentarily on Cal, the interloper in the kitchen. "Get out of here! Shoo!"

It was as good a chance as any to escape. Max sprinted for the dining room and her waiting tables.

--

Logan Cale, heir to the Cale Aeronautics fortune, rogue journalist, and man-about-town, used a penknife to open the parcel that had arrived at his house that afternoon. It had been sent by a contact in San Diego. He gave the papers inside -- receipts and trucking manifests -- a cursory examination. Just more fuel for the fire. Logan tucked the packet under his arm, leaving the empty box in the hallway for the maid to take care of in the morning.

It was late, and his "house guests" were safely here, upstairs in the extra bedrooms. He had already drafted the script for the follow-up broadcast, which would air the next day. All that was left was the recording itself. Peter was around somewhere, no doubt, although Logan didn't see him. He hoped the bodyguard hadn't fallen asleep.

Logan walked through the dark-paneled library, his shoes whispering on the plush of carpet, and opened the door to his study-come-recording studio. He settled in his chair, fixing the aluminum disk in the machine and adjusting the mic. "This is All Ears," he said, for the second time that week. "This broadcast will last sixty seconds, and it is the only free voice in the city of Seattle. At the end of the Great War, Edgar Sonrisa purchased millions of cans of surplus creamed corn from Uncle Sam and he's been biding his time since then. Now, in a factory just outside of Seattle, he opens the cans, dilutes them with starch and water, and repackages, selling twice as many. The corn is marketed under his own Sunrise brand, as well as in the original Royale cans which his employees reseal. It is this resealing that is slowly poisoning the people who--"

"Hey!" Peter shouted from the library. Logan looked up.

And there was the girl.

She was beautiful, dressed all in black, black trousers and a black turtleneck, her dark hair curling about her face. At Peter's shout, her back stiffened and she turned away from Logan to face the bodyguard, graceful and tense.

"Laura!" Logan called. "Sophie!"

"They're OK, boss. The thief never got upstairs."

She turned to face Logan. Her eyes were round and black, too, and cradled in her arms was his statue of Bast. Thief, Peter said. She had not been sent here by Sonrisa, although god knew how much she had heard of his broadcast.

He found that he could breathe again. "You're a thief," he said. At the far side of the long library table, Peter nudged the safety on his weapon.

The girl shrugged elegantly. "Times are hard."

"Stay where you are, Peter," Logan ordered. He took a step into the room, empty palms spread. "You have good taste. French, about ten years old, a tribute to Chitarus."

"Whoever that is," she said.

"I see. You chose it because it was pretty."

"No, because it's the Egyptian goddess, Bast." She placed it carefully on the table. "Eye of Ra, protector, avenger, destroyer... giver of life who lives forever. She is the goddess who sees all goddesses."

"Ah."

Peter shifted, his bulk blocking the hallway, through which she must have entered. The girl glanced at him, then at Logan.

"I'm sorry," she said with a small smile. "I'd love to stay and discuss art, or even theology, but I need to be on my way. I love your show, though." She bounced once on the balls of her feet and then took off like an Olympic diver, jumping for the French windows as if they weren't there, and was out on the lawn with in a crash of glass.

Logan and Peter watched her sprinting for the gates. "That, I didn't expect, Mr. Cale. You want me to chase?"

"No, you won't catch her," Logan said. He looked at the aluminum disk, which he'd left turning. He'd have to start over with the broadcast. "Just find out who she is."

--

"Dark haired young lady, short, good figure," the big man said. "Very good figure. Maybe ate here some time in the last few days, maybe works here. Do you know who I'm talking about?"

"I'm sorry to say I do not," Normal said, fastidiously straightening the cloth covering a nearby table. It was Maxine Geneva the man was looking for, Normal was sure of it, but he wasn't going to admit to anything until he knew what kind of trouble she was in this time. "What makes you come here to look for her?"

The other man produced a booklet of matches. Normal recognized the Gem's logo, of course. The big man shrugged. "Found these." He handed the matches to Normal, along with a folded bill. "My boss is a ballet producer, very interested in her. He thinks she has quite a future as a dancer."

Normal was fairly certain he knew what that really meant, but the man certainly did not know what he was in for. He put the money in his pocket. "Tell your boss the producer to watch out for that girl. She's trouble."

"Name? Address?"

"Yeah, yeah." Normal reached for a pencil.

--

Brenda, Max's usually cheerful roommate, was sitting on the davenport in the common parlor, looking glum, her piecework abandoned on her knee. Max and Brenda rented a room upstairs in what used to be a single family house in Judkins Park, and were allowed use of the parlor and kitchen with the other tenants. This part of the city had become a place where Hoover carriages -- automobiles hitched to horses because of the prohibitive cost of gasoline and repairs -- were sometimes seen, and where hobos left runes on the mail boxes and telegraph poles, advising one other where to beg.

"Has Mr. Walter been up for the rent?" Max asked.

"You bet. And you still owe me your half."

"Don't worry," Max promised. "What's got you so down?"

"It's poor Little Bit," said Brenda. Little Bit was the son of the couple who lived across the hall. He was six or seven, Max guessed. "He's still sick. His mother heard All Ears on the radio today, and she says she thinks it might be because she bought some of that bad Royale brand corn."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," said Max." The kid will be fine."

"You think?"

Max remembered the man she had seen in the house on Fogle Avenue, handsome and condescending. "That radio hack is probably some bored rich swell in a mansion somewhere with nothing to do but stir up worries for working people. Looking for a laugh."

Brenda's eyes brightened. "Hey, speaking of rich -- someone came by with a present for you."

"A present?"

Brenda gestured toward their room. "Yes -- a statue of a cat."

--

It would not be accurate to say that Logan was waiting for her. For all he knew, she would sell the statue to the highest bidder without looking back. Still, when he heard the slight creak of a window opening in the dining window, the sound of someone landing lightly on the uncarpeted hardwood inside, he closed the oven door on the chicken he was preparing and turned, ready with a smile.

"Hello. It's funny how cats tend to turn up right around the dinner hour."

She didn't seem to be in the mood to play. "You broke into my room."

"Actually, your landlord let me in. And this, I believe, is what is commonly termed the pot calling the kettle black."

"I do it to make a living." She gestured toward the lushly appointed dining room around her. "That's clearly not one of your concerns."

"You should see my uncle's place."

"I'd love to. You want to give me the address?"

"I left you a present," Logan said.

"Am I supposed to be grateful?"

"That would not be inappropriate." Logan was still in the kitchen, talking to her through the wide doorway. He took a step forward, leaning on the door frame. His visitor took a step backward, then, looking as though she were going against her better judgment, pulled out a dining room chair for herself and sat.

"Mr. Cale?" Peter entered the dining room and looked from Logan to the girl at the table. "Should I ...?"

"Go upstairs, please, and check on Laura and Sophie," Logan said. The bodyguard left them. "Now, Maxine." This was the name her boss had given.

Her eyes narrowed. "Max. Look, what do you want from me?"

"You know who I am, where I live. I wanted to know the same, to make sure you weren't trying to hurt me. Can't be too careful in my line of work. But curiosity isn't just limited to the feline population. I think you're interesting. I want to understand what you do," Logan said truthfully. Ever since he'd first seen her, he hadn't been able to get her out of his head.

"What if I said the same to you, Mr. All Ears."

"What I do? That's easy," Logan said. "I'm proud of it. I research and write the broadcasts myself. I have some useful connections. I record here on electrical transcription disks. That's what all the canned radio programs are using. We change the labels on mine and swap them into the stacks. Once the technician realizes what they're broadcasting, he could shut it off, of course, but they never do." He grinned. "My fans are everywhere."

"Are my criminal escapades going to merit a broadcast?"

Logan was taken aback. "Uh, no. Not at all." He hadn't even thought of that. "I want to see this city the way it was, you know? The Depression has kicked the integrity out of people. Thugs -- people like this Sonrisa -- are taking advantage of hard times because they can. The police, and institutions that are supposed to protect citizens, they've been turned around. What you do is a symptom, I think, not the real problem."

"Gee, thank you doc," said Max. She stood up and walked to an ornate mirror near the sideboard. "Look what you've got. Why bother with all of that?"

"Because it should be done." Logan followed her to the sideboard. "I'm in the right position to do it." He looked over her shoulder at her reflection. "You're beautiful," he said, unable to stop himself. Max stood there stiffly, but did not move away. He brushed away the hair from the back of her neck, then, as if in a dream, examined the tattoo on the skin there. He had seen this before. In blue letters, someone's handwriting:

_Group V_

_O Pos._

_#452_

"Project Manticore," Logan said.

--

Part 2 COMING SOON.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Dark Angel does not belong to me.

_1938_

"Project Manticore." Logan tried to keep his voice from sounding surprised or excited. "You didn't have much of a childhood, did you?"

Max pulled away from him. "What do you know about it?"

"Let's see," Logan said. "Government scientists set up a secret base in the early '20s near the Arapho reservation in Wymoning. Advertised there and on all of the neighboring reservations for half-breed babies, saying they were going to do a health-study or something, and stole them -- or in some cases, bought them up. Most of the babies' mothers were Indians, the fathers whites, negroes, Mexicans. The scientists went in for variety. Wanted to do some kind of racist testing. Experiments.

Max was keeping her face very still, but somehow, Logan felt that she was either about to cry or very angry. "It's none of your business."

"Suppose I could help you locate the other ones."

"The other ones?"

"I talked to a man who said he was a lab tech at there. He said that twelve members of Group Five escaped from the compound in 1929, right before the stock market crash."

"We got separated," Max said. "I never knew anyone else made it."

"Do you know what they were doing to you there?"

"Not at the time," Max said. "A lot of things became clear, later." She stared down at her hands. "I just want to find the kids I grew up with."

"I'll help you," Logan said.

"Yeah? What's the catch?"

Logan thought. "I could use some help from you, too. That woman upstairs? Her name is Laura Braganza and she supervised workers in a factory cracking cans of creamed corn, diluting the contents, and then resealing them with lead. It's poisoning people."

"Yeah, I heard your broadcast. So'd my six-year-old neighbor, now he thinks he's gonna die."

"Children will die, if Edgar Sonrisa isn't stopped. Mrs. Braganza is willing to testify to the work she did under Sonrisa's managers, but I'm sure you can guess at the lengths he'd go to shut her up."

"So?"

"So I'm taking her and her daughter into hiding after the trial. I want you to come with us to help get them settled. You're smart and you're light on your feet, and I'm thinking you might be a little better with kids than Peter is."

"Are you nuts? I've heard all about how bad this Sonrisa character is -- from _you_, remember? -- and I have enough enemies already. I won't put myself at risk for something that has nothing to do with me. If you were smart, you'd stay here and enjoy all the nice -- " she swept her arm around the room. "Art. Before you get yourself dead playing stupid games."

"Just hear me out!" Logan said. He hadn't meant to scare her away.

Max walked past him to the foyer, and placed her hand on the knob of the front door. "No. I've heard enough."

--

Cindy had taken one look at Brenda's face and said she'd get Max. Brenda waited for her in the alley behind the Gem.

"Hey, you couldn't hold out until I got home from work? I told you I'd get the rent money," said Max, thrusting forward an envelope, and then, noticing her friend's face, stopped. "What's the matter?"

"It's Little Bit. He's dead."

"What?" asked Max.

Brenda observed a kid just a little older than their neighbor who was looking in the garbage cans behind the restaurant, but it looked like they'd already been picked through. He wouldn't find much. He'd do better knocking on doors, but not in this neighborhood. "His mother took him to the hospital in a taxi cab last night, but he didn't make it." Brenda said. "I just thought you should know."

"Thank you." Max looked stunned. "I guess. For thinking to tell me. Do you want to come in for a minute? Normal's not around, and you look like you could use a cup of tea. I'm sure Herbert could fix you up."

"Thanks." Brenda followed Max through the dish room, where Cindy waved at her, into the kitchen. A dark-skinned man in a sauce-spattered white apron was sitting on a stool, reading a newspaper and sipping clear liquid that looked suspiciously more viscous than water from a juice glass.

"Maxie," he said when they came in, tossing back his drink. "How you doing."

"Brenda, this is Herbert, the chef. He works like a nailer, but only when he has to." Brenda gave him a wet smile. He was handsome, given the givens. "Herbert, This is my friend, Brenda. She's had a sort of rough day. Do you think we could find her something hot to drink?"

"Why, sure." Herbert stood up and went to the stove. "Pleased to meet you, miss."

"What's in the news?" Max asked, leaning against the counter.

"Mmmm, nothing good. There was a shooting right on the steps of the courthouse. There's a picture of the trash who done it right on the front page, but the cops say they don't know him. One man dead, another fixin' to die. Little girl kidnapped." Herbert shook his head sadly. "Lord knows why these things happening."

Max reached for the paper. "Sophie?" she read. "Shit!"

"Who do you know named Sophie?" Brenda asked, concerned by the urgency in her voice, but Max was already banging out the door.

--

When she saw the intruder in Mr. Cale's study, Laura Braganza almost shot without thinking. Her head wasn't on straight right now.

It was only a girl with dark curls, wearing a brown cotton dress. She wasn't the maid Laura had seen before, though, and she was going through the big file drawers.

"What are you doing here?" Laura asked, still pointing the pistol she had taken from Peter's body. "Who are you?"

"Bruno Anselmo," said the girl, looking up. She tapped the file. "Works for Edgar Sonrisa. That's who took your daughter."

"Oh god. She just squirmed out of Peter's arms." Her voice sounded dry and tiny in her own ears. "Mr. Cale tried to grab her but ..." Laura couldn't put into words what it had felt like. "I saw them both shot." She moved into a crouch, involuntarily dropping the gun. "What am I going to do?"

The girl stood up and walked over. She patted Laura's shoulder in a way intended to be reassuring, though it wasn't, and then gave the gun a sharp kick that sent it skidding under the leather reading chair in the corner. "Just wait here for me," she said.

--

There were some places that a man could go which a woman could not. Max had learned this lesson when she was eleven or twelve. Around the same time, however, she learned that the reverse was often true.

She stepped carefully in the heels, hoping the seams of her stockings were finally straight. That had been the hard part so far. After she got Sonrisa's address from All Ears' files, Max's own contacts made it easy to find out who all the important people at this party would be -- the muscle, the caterers. The girls.

There was a guard in the post at the end of the drive. "I'm with Alice," she told him. "I'm a little late." That was enough for him.

She walked directly to the servants' entrance and knocked on the door. "Hello," she said to the man in kitchen whites who opened. "You're Hymie, right?" He took one look at her, taking in the fringed dress she had borrowed from Cindy, the painted face. "Why don't you go right up," he said.

Max proceeded up the back stairs, careful to hold the bannister. An older woman stood in the hallway. Max could hear music from the closed door behind her. "Ma'am? Are you Alice?"

"I don't know you," the woman said quickly.

"Listen, I understand it's just your girls here tonight, but I'm in a jam. Lillian sent me, she said you could help me out."

Alice looked at her appraisingly. "You're a gatecrasher, but at least you're a looker. You know the rules? Bank's closed on the dance floor itself, the rooms you can use are one floor up. I get half. And tell Lill that she owes me."

"Got it," said Max, feeling sorry about the last condition. She'd called in too many favors for tonight.

The ballroom was fitted with a stage and a six-piece jazz band. Couples rotated on the dance floor and visited the punch bowl. Many of the men were twenty years older than many of the women. Max waited at the edge of the crowd.

"Miss," said a man like a side of beef dressed up in a shirt and tie, approaching her.

"What a gay party," Max said. "Don't you think?"

He didn't look amused. "The boss wants you to come with me."

He led Max, not upstairs where the rooms Alice told her about were located, but to a suite on the same floor as the ballroom. The lights were low and warm, and a group of men were gathered around a poker table. The walls seemed to be soundproofed somehow, making the band in the next room inaudible here.

Edgar Sonrisa, the big cheese himself, was an unimposing middle-aged man in a very nice suit. Max was not very impressed. "Well well," he said. "I think you'd better come over and sit by me. There's room in my lap."

"No thanks," said Max. "I have a business proposal for you that involves me keeping my clothes on."

"Now, I don't know that I want any part of that," he said. The other men chuckled.

He had no reason to take her seriously yet, of course. "Laura Braganza?" she tried. "The woman who testified against you? How about her? See, All Ears isn't done with you. My boyfriend works for him, like those two suckers you greased outside court yesterday. They followed you from the scene and saw where you hid the girl, and they're going to get her back tonight." Logan would have had someone ready to do this if he were smart, Max thought -- then they wouldn't be in this predicament. "But I've got something better," Max told Sonrisa. "Laura."

"Where is she?"

Max rolled her eyes. "My boyfriend's place."

Sonrisa chuckled. "God, I love a woman scorned. Johnny!" he called to one of the sitting men. "You and Candido check on the little one. The rest of you, leave."

"Está en el muelle, si?" the first one asked the second.

The second man cut his eyes at Max. "Yes, goddamnit. En el cobertizo."

Max understood some Spanish thanks to the Mexican guards and staff at the program. Hiring Mexicans was supposed to limit the human contact she and her siblings got from non-authorized personnel. This practice had worked, but only when the soldiers and doctors were around to enforce.

The house by the docks, the goon had said. All Ears had a list of Sonrisa's property holdings in West Seattle; that was probably where this boathouse was. In any case, Cal and a half-dozen of his buddies were standing by to follow anyone who left the mansion.

"So, doll-face," Sonrisa said, when she was alone with him and Anselmo. "I'm not too concerned about the baby, but you're right -- the mama would be better. How do you see this working?"

"I see you giving me five hundred dollars, and me giving you an address."

"Nothing doing," said Sonrisa. "How do I know she's there? You get the money when I get the lady."

"I was afraid of that." Max murmured, crossing her legs above the knee. "How about this, then. Me and your pal here and your five hundred all go to a neutral location together to wait. A friend of mine's, say. I call Laura over, and when she comes up, I get the berries. What you men choose to do with her after that?" Max shrugged. "Not my concern." She held her breath.

Sonrisa laid his hands flat on the table. "You better hope you're as smart as you think you are."

She did.

--

Bruno could not believe his luck. He was seated on a bed in a hotel next to an absolutely terrific looking girl whom he could certainly overpower if things went sideways, and the boss was very shortly going to be in a good mood -- hopefully a generous mood -- when he got what he wanted. The girl had called Laura and told her to come here; Bruno had heard and recognized the woman's voice on the phone.

"What do ya say we have a little fun while we're waiting?"

The girl shook her head. "I don't know. Wouldn't want to get caught off guard."

"You're a real bear-cub, ain't ya?" he asked.

"Look Bruno," she said, her hand sliding down his bicep, and then along his forearm to his wrist. He heard a click. "I'm all business."

She sprang off the bed like a cat, out of the way, a second before he lifted his arm and realized that it was cuffed to the headboard. He was on his feet, but she was out of reach.

"You little quiff!"

"Huh," she said dispassionately, and kicked him once in the face, just below the left eye. It felt to Bruno like his cheekbone had shattered. "I thought you were a professional. Edgar is not going to like this."

''Ow! You bitch! Step a little closer and I'll tear your head off!"

"One handed?" The girl shrugged. "Sorry. Well, he wanted to test you, and I've done my bit, although I don't know why he needed to." She shook her head. "Look incompetence up in the dictionary. There's a picture of you."

"I'm fine competent!" Bruno yelled, his face stinging.

"Stay tuned for the guys who come to finish you off. " The girl whipped out the window to the fire escape. "If you're lucky, the boss'll do it personal."

When she was well and truly gone, Bruno sat back down on the bed. It took him another minute to realize that the bulge against the small of his back was his gun. He should have shot her. He removed the weapon with his free hand and checked it. It was loaded. He trained it at the door. He didn't know how he was going to get out of this one. Good thing he wasn't the suicidal type.

--

THREE MONTHS LATER:

Logan sat in the wicker invalid's chair, watching the gardener, who was bent over the perennial bed, sunlight striking his bent back. A file lay open on Logan's lap, but he was taking a break, relaxed from a few hours of All Ears work.

"Hey."

He didn't breathe until she walked around to the front of the chair, where he could see her. It was Max. She wasn't dressed in cat-burglar black today, but was wearing a casual blouse and a blue skirt. She was still incredibly beautiful.

"Long time, no see," Logan said, grinning. "How'd you get over the wall?"

Max ignored the question, giving him the once-over. "That thing doesn't corner worth a damn, does it?"

"I've ordered something a little more practical, don't worry. Folds up, so you can put it in a car -- perfect for the modern cripple on the go."

"Sorry I never visited," she said. "I'm sorry about all of this."

She didn't look at all embarrassed at his blunt joke, so he was somewhat disarmed by the apology. It's all right, he was going to say. You did more than your part.

"-- Not that you getting your end shot off was my fault in any way," Max added. "I told you to mind your own potatoes."

"That you did," Logan said. "Thanks."

Now she seemed a little uncomfortable. She had all of her weight on one foot, her posture not as perfect as he'd noticed was usual for her. "You really left me holding the bag, there, daddy-o. How are you doing?"

"Fine," said Logan.

"Still rocking the boat?"

"Someone has to. I just happen to have a lot of time on my hands." He had been told, at his own insistence, the truth -- that he had five years, on the outside, before he would die of a bladder infection or kidney failure. It didn't sound like enough time to him, but because of his family's money, he would spend it, not in a home with a bunch of polio cases and war vets, but out in the world, doing the work that needed to be done. Logan said, "My mother, used to tell me that the universe was right on schedule."

"And you believe it?"

"Why beat yourself up trying to figure out why bad things happen? The job's trying to figure out how to deal with the consequences. Which is what you did with Sonrisa."

"I didn't have anything to do with that," Max said guardedly.

"Of course. Bruno Anselmo was arrested for the dirty deed. All I know is that Sonrisa didn't have a chance to kill the jurors, and I'm grateful to the person or people who made that happen. You got Sophie out, though."

"No, actually that was my friend Stinky and his boys, the door-to-door knife sharpeners."

"I see. Well, be sure to thank them for me. You, I've got something for. The Bast. Somehow, it turned up on the black market."

"Funny."

"It's inside," he said. "I'll have my nurse or someone get it for you before you leave. "

"No, I don't need it."

"Well, how about this, then." He pulled out the photograph from the bottom of the pile of papers spread out over his thighs. The boy in the picture stared defiantly at the camera. He had Arapho cheekbones, maybe, but even in black-and-white, it was clear that his hair was bleached as blond as a corn-tassle. "The police records identify him as Michael Hanover, but his tat has him as Group V, AB Neg., #599."

"Zack," she breathed.

"He was picked up for armed robbery in '29. I shouldn't be surprised that you know him."

"He's my brother." Max said. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement. "Well, in every way that counts."

"He escaped from custody six hours later."

"What did I tell you."

"So," said Logan. "I have a better clue than you do. And that's after only a week out of the hospital to look. We had better come to an understanding so that you can pay me back."

"Is more derring do required?"

"Legwork," said Logan. "Simple legwork."

--

"Sweet Jesus!" Vogelsang yelled. "Do you have to do that!?"

Colonel Donald Lydecker wasn't worried by the prisoner's recalcitrance. They hadn't been going at him for long.

The dick squirmed in his chair. "I won't tell you anything. Haven't you ever heard of client privlege?"

"Isn't that for doctors, sir?" asked the private holding Voglesang's shoulders still.

"That's right, soldier," said Donald Lydecker, breaking another finger for emphasis. "There is nothing in the world to keep this man from singing to me." He looked directly into Vogelsang's eyes. "Who hired you?"

_fin._

A/N2: This was fun to write, but it was also sort of a pain in the ass, so I have no plans to do more episodes unless there is major public outcry. Thanks for reading!


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